Prey
by bitter-alisa
Summary: As a true predator, Randy Orton loves a good hunt. His prey being none other than the Straight Edge Superstar, things just might get out of hand, when he doesn't really want to be caught. Or does he? Slash, M for later chapters
1. Chapter 1

I have never ever written a fanfic before. English is not my native language, and all I have been writing before were mostly academic reports for my studies. I'm so nervous. Ohmygod.  
Disclaimer: obviously, I own nothing. If I did, trust me, we wouldn't need fanfiction.  
Oh, and yes, _these_ are thoughts.

* * *

[August 2006]

He watched as this barely known indie guy in tiny trunks pranced into the arena.

"…I must not fail, I must not fail! Even through the darkest days, this fire burns, always…"

_Bastard stole my theme song_, thought Randy. This was no joke; whoever let this kid use HIS music just like that, should have known better than mess around with Randy Orton. And that whoever will pay. Or, at least, someone will.  
He had a bad temper and he knew it; hell, he was even proud of it – he liked to know that he is feared. Fear meant respect. And respect gave him power. He loved power as much as he loved himself, and being such an egomaniacal asshole as he was, that said quite a lot.

He complained and argued, he threatened and growled, but the song stayed with the new guy. It's not like he was desperate for this particular song, no; it was a matter of principle and in this case Randy would not back off.

So when Vince had nothing to say on the topic, Randy decided to wait. It might've been childish of him, to take a grudge like that, but vengeance had to be served. He would wait for his time, watching his pray closely, and when the moment would be right, he would attack when least expected. After all, he was called "the predator" not just because he liked the sound of it.

* * *

[2011]

And so watched. With no particular dislike of the man, just cold, impassionate curiosity. He had found him peculiarly interesting: his appearance, so strikingly different; his lifestyle, so odd and out-of-place; his fight style and mic skills, his heel attitude, his sense of humor and his personality in general. CM Punk was a worthy opponent in the ring and an entertaining part of the roster.  
They haven't become friends though; Randy had little to no friends in general. Cody and Ted did not really count. While fun to hang out with, the two younger men were too full of themselves and each other – yes, their relationship did not escape Randy's sight. This by no means meant that he was judging them. If anything, he actually found himself rather jealous of their happiness. Randy himself was bisexual and, if one asked him, single for far too long. Despite all the occasional fucks here and there, he hasn't been involved in any kind of relationship since that unfortunate time when he thought that marrying Samantha was a good idea. He couldn't tell what, but something definitely went terribly wrong – either it was lack of love from both sides or her misunderstanding of his priorities – but she just wasn't the right person. What Randy sought was a complete devotion, support and understanding of his career and how much it meant to him. Despite his cold façade, he actually did have feelings. Loneliness, lack of love and disappointment in life were no strangers to Randy, but rather often, if unwelcome, guests.

* * *

Stalking his pray, however, was a pleasant distraction from his everyday life. He even found himself to take the man into liking. Even though they weren't friends, he had plenty of chances to meet him. Randy would often find himself dragged into various out-of-ring activities together with Punk and other guys after the shows. This way he was provided with an insight of Punk's personal life and got to know him as a person, not just an arena character. Even though straight-edge, Punk didn't avoid parties – he was the spirit of any gathering, funny, sociable, energetic, and the infamous "better-than-you" attitude appeared to be an exaggerated gimmick of a minor character trait. Slightly arrogant, very cynical and sarcastic, he however was fun to be around. And he has also proved himself to be a good friend to his drinking colleagues. Countless times have Randy watched him call cabs or drive shitlessly drunk Hardy brothers back to the hotel.

Punk had the most startling taste in women Randy has ever seen; there was no particular pattern in the appearance of his girlfriends rather than a certain personality trait that Punk has followed over the years. It seemed the crazier the girl was the more Punk was into her. Insanity appeared to be the main criteria for dating, judging from examples like Maria, Beth, and repeatedly Lita. Though his newest interest, AJ, was most definitely the craziest. Being described as "unstable" in best case, she cheated on Punk with startling frequency and diversity, but he didn't seem to notice. Or care.

When it came to Randy, however, Punk was completely indifferent. He barely knew the man, and didn't seem to be eager to know him any better. Punk had his circle of friends, and Randy was far out of it. Even when talked to, Punk was quite reluctant to reply or initiate the conversation himself. He has never shown any signs of dislike though, only disinterest and indifference. This puzzled Randy. Why the always friendly, easy-going Second City Savior would be so evasive towards the man who tried to become his friend? Because Randy did try. Small talks, compliments for performances, occasionally buying him his beloved pepsi - nothing seemed to bring CM Punk closer, on the contrary, it made him even more distant. And Randy was curious to find out why.

* * *

He was in the monitor room, watching the fight between Punk and Chris. One of the best matches ever, it was said, and Randy had to agree. It was clear that Chris was going to lose (he always lost the most important matches lately), but he didn't seemed to be upset about this. He was that good – and Randy admired him for that, even though he didn't understand the lack of ambition Chris has shown. What he did understand was that Punk needed a good "homecoming" fight, and Chris was able to provide that. It was most entertaining to watch. Randy admired Punk's high jumps and graceful kicks and that sweet luscious ass in tight tiny trunks he wore on stage. And those silky thighs. And this silver lip ring glittering in the arena lights… _Wait, I'm not supposed to think this,_ Randy frowned. No way in hell should he fall for this little bastard, this mister better-than-you, the self-proclaimed "Voice of the Voiceless"! Not falling, no way. If there was anything Randy was good at, it was his famous control and acknowledgment of his emotions. There was no denying that he was a little too obsessed with Punk. The grudge about the stolen song that was a kick start for the growing interest was now somewhere in the back of Randy's head. After all, Punk was a really good looking, attractive man, and Randy had healthy desires. _Falling for – no. Sexual attraction – yes._ Randy slowly smirked to himself. That could be good. A nice fuck was always good. And that the Straight-Edge Superstar didn't engage in promiscuous sexual behavior… _well, we will see about that._

So on the 9th of July, when he found out that they are going to stay in Denver for five days more than expected because of flight delay and due to unplanned prolonged stay in the hotel he and Punk were put to live in one room, Randy saw a rare chance to get all the answers he wanted. _Answers, yeah._ Slow grin emerged on Randy Orton's face.

* * *

Phew, so this is it. Please do let me know what do you guys and gals think. Am I going somewhere, or should I abandon writing for good?


	2. Chapter 2

Yes, an update in a day! I really have no life. Also all the reviews kept me all warm and sunny and motivated, so here you go.  
First chapter was sort of Randy's POV, so here we'll see how our other hero feels. Enjoy!

* * *

[2006]

He loved the song from the moment he first heard it, and there was no way in stopping him from using it, even if it meant pissing off the infamous Viper. He liked stuff, and therefore it was his; this is how things usually worked for CM Punk, and he did not intend to change that. Who was that guy anyway? Some full-of-himself asshole, thinking that he's something special just because he was longer in the company and had won a title or two. Not caring about stuff like that was Punk's style. _I do whatever the fuck I want, and the question is not who's gonna let me, but who's gonna stop me. _  
In fact, he has barely seen the man. He knew who he was, he knew that he should not have an enemy in him, but that's about it.

Things have drastically changed after their first match against each other, and that day would never leave CM Punk's memory or imagination. It was the Survivor series, and among all other opponents Punk immediately spotted a tall, muscular man with smooth, tanned skin. He looked positively dangerous. His movements were so well coordinated and graceful, that he actually reminded Punk of a cat. A very big, dangerous, wild cat, like a panther or a jaguar. Ha, cat. Punk chuckled a little. Would he purr if petted? Would he meow and scratch if cornered? Punk felt a shiver going down his spine. The attraction was immediate; it struck him to the depths of his soul and ended up somewhere down south. But everything has its time, and now there was a match to fight; dealing with his feelings could definitely wait.  
They won, of course, and it called for a celebration. Nice bar, cold glass of pepsi and the team he just shared a victory with. They drank, laughed and talked, but Punk was distant. Contrary to popular opinion, he was not a people's person; he had little friends; and even though he was often seen in parties and gatherings, it was something completely different. These were people fun to hang out with, but nothing too close. Nothing too personal.

That night he drove himself and passed out Jeff back to the hotel and his thoughts kept going back to the fight and unusual reaction to his opponent. The man was the definition of undisputable sexyness, that much was clear; but the immediate impulse to throw himself at the man and fuck till the loss of breath and pulse shocked Punk. He didn't do one-timers; he didn't do _men_ in general. _Fuck, that came out wrong. _This whole situation was wrong. So wrong that he took a decision to stay away from Randy Orton.

* * *

[2011]

He dated many girls to distract himself from thoughts of Randy. It helped; temporarily, but it did. Yes, they were weird. Yes, they were crazy. He generally liked that in people. Craziness held his interest longer, but not long enough to overshadow Randy. The image of him walking slowly towards the ring, well-developed muscles moving under smooth hairless skin, confident, almost arrogant smirk and the glance of the winner would haunt Punk, especially at nights. After the fights between them he would return to the hotel, replaying the most thrilling scenes and most intimate touches in his head over and over again. Jerking off in the shower after the match wouldn't be all that much of a relief; he needed a real thing. There were moments when he wasn't even able to make love to his girlfriend-at-the-time. _It just wasn't it. _He was filled with blind, burning_ want_ for one particular Viper.

However, it would be at least halfway bearable if that was only sexual attraction (which Punk wasn't all that cool with since, as far as he knew, he wasn't gay and has never experienced anything like this). His feelings seemed to be spreading from south upwards, taking the shape of butterflies in his stomach and fuzzy warmth in his heart. Everything about Randy seemed attractive: his attitude, his self-confidence, even his voice. Everything pointed towards obvious crush. Punk was scared and freaked out by these new feelings; he greatly disliked being like a schoolgirl which had hots for a senior student. Many a time he had mocked and counseled his little sister about her teenage crushes, and he knew where they led. He also knew that spilling his heart to a friend usually helped to sort out that mess of the feelings.

So, one night while watching old hockey game on TV with Jeff, Punk gathered his courage to have a revelation talk. Punk sat straight in the bed and took a deep breath.

"Listen Jeff…", he shyly begun.  
"Yeah Phil? Finally ready to spill out whatever's been wrong with you lately?" Jeff lazily turned on his side from the TV and looked at Punk.  
"Yeah", Punk stroked his hair and chewed on his lip ring. He wasn't surprised even in the slightest that his friend has noticed his inner struggles. They were pretty close, even if not always sharing their problems with each other. They've been friends for a forever, and a slightest glance was enough to tell that something wasn't right. They never asked questions though; when the friend would be ready, he would share his troubles.  
"This is kinda awkward", Punk warned.  
"I figured as much", Jeff stretched as he made himself more comfortable in Punk's hotel bed.  
"I mean, really awkward", Punk sighed as Jeff rolled his eyes impatiently. "I think I'm in love", Punk breathed out. "Like, for real. Seriously and pretty deeply."  
Jeff didn't appear to be surprised. "Clearly. Is it AJ? Please tell me it's not AJ. No offense, but you guys would be like the worst match _ever_. I mean, she's fucking mental, and…"  
"It's not AJ, Jeff", Punk sighed. "It's not Lita. It's not any chick you know." He took a deep breath and continued - "It's not a chick at all". There, the worst was said, and Punk bowed his head, afraid to look at his friend.  
"Well… That _is_ awkward. For you, I mean" Jeff moved closer to Punk and lifted his face by gently pulling his chin. "Look, Punk, I'm in no position to judge you. You can't choose who to fall for."  
"So you're not gonna condemn me as a repulsive fag?"  
"You're my friend, Phil, no matter what" Jeff smiled. "Now spill it all out. I'm here for you."  
And all of Punk's inner walls built in self-defense shattered and fell apart. He finally burst out all he was holding in for so long:  
"It just… He is so amazing. So beautiful. I can barely control myself when I'm around him. It's like every smallest part of me calls to him, and I want nothing more than to touch him. Hell, just watching him gives me that tingly feeling in my stomach. And I could just _swear_ there's something between us. I mean, that one time on stage on one of our feuds… He was so close I could feel the tension. I can swear he wants me; it seemed he would jump me any moment. And some part of me wants nothing more than to give in. I feel like that is only thing that matters in my life and… Damn, I'm no good at those touchy-feely things", Punk buried his face in his hands.  
"No need to explain how love feels like to me, Phil", Jeff smiled gently. "So, are you gonna make me guess who that is or are you just gonna go ahead and tell me that's Randy?"  
This time Punk was shocked by just how perceptive his friend was. _Or am I just that obvious..?_  
"Is it so clear that…?"  
"I'm not blind, Punk; I see how you look at him. And even though I thought that if you would ever fall for a guy it would be _me_, honestly, I can't blame you. So, what's your plan? Are you gonna have this very awkward come-to-Jesus talk confessing your eternal undying love for him or are you just gonna jump the man outta nowhere? Honestly, I'd do the second, but if you're not…"  
"No, Jeff. I'm not going to do anything about it." Punk interrupted. "I know better than to throw myself at Randy-OneNightStand-Orton. I know how that would end. No. I'm gonna stay as far as I can from him. It will fade out; and if not…" Punk closed his eyes. _If not, well, shit._

This is why CM Punk found the unplanned delay in Denver quite displeasing. With nothing better to do, guys would grow restless, and the most unwelcome communications would happen. Slightly irritated, Punk took a look at the rooming paper hanging next to the info sheet about the delay. Cold shiver ran down his spine when he finally found his name on the list.

* * *

Ok, I'm kinda tiptoeing over here; stuff's going slow, yeah, sorry about that. Next time!  
Also, reviews. Many many thanks! They mean a lot to me. Please let me know what do you think of this one.


	3. Chapter 3

To quote G.R.R. Martin, this one was a bitch. However, I really hope you people will like it. Stuff finally is happening! (Gasping noises) Enjoy :)

* * *

[July 9th, day 1]

"Yeah, and what? Are you afraid that he'll attempt to take advantage of you? C'mon, Phil, don't just chicken out like this. I doubt he'll even notice who is he's sharing a room with." That was Jeff's response when Punk asked to switch rooms. He was right though, chickening out was not Punk's style. Damned he was, if anyone would condemn him as a coward. However, that didn't mean he isn't afraid. He just doesn't know what he is worried about more: actually giving in his wants or Randy not noticing him.

When he enters his (their?) room, it is empty except for bags on one of the beds. There is an unfamiliar scent of cologne, faint, but pleasant. Randy was here, left his unpacked stuff, and went out. But just when Punk is getting comfortable in his bed with a comic, door cracks opening and then instantly slams close. "Easy there," Punk lifts his eyes from the book to face his roommate. Randy is handsome as ever, dressed all in black, well-ironed shirt clinging to well-built torso, and rolled-up sleeves showing off muscular hands. He nods in acknowledgment of Punk's presence, strips off his shirt, smiles, wishes him good luck on his match later on this evening, and disappears in the general direction of bathroom. Punk gulps. Such an encounter, brief as it was, still is more than he was ready for. So he grabs his stuff and sneaks out. He could perfectly shower in Jeff's room.

When Randy leaves the bathroom, wrapped only in white hotel towel, with tiny drops of water running down his strong body, prepared to look as seductive as he possibly could, his disappointment to find the room abandoned is immeasurable. _Catch. You. Later._

* * *

[July 9th, evening]

"CM Punk, will you marry me?" Punk recites in purposely high-pitched voice, imitating AJ. It's evening, he and Randy are sitting on the floor of their shared room, laughing and chatting in the moment of good mood and something close to a building-up friendship, as unlikely as it gets. They're having fun, hell, they are actuality talking to each other, more than casual "Hi" an "Bye", more than both of them would've ever anticipated to.  
"What the actual fuck", laughs Punk as they remember the events from just a few hours ago. "She's so crazy, you can hardly tell when she's playing along with the storyline and when she's actually serious."  
"Or she's just that good", Randy smirks watching Punk's reactions.  
"Yeah right", Punk laughs off and takes a sip of pepsi.  
"But wait, don't you generally like crazy chicks?" Randy asks alluding to Punk's statement from few weeks ago, curious for the answer a little bit more than he would like to.  
"There's a difference between crazy and insane. Crazy is fun; insane is scary." Punk simply explains, and while Randy ponders upon where would Punk assign him, an offer to go for an ice cream run is voiced, and after all they end up on the same floor, but with sweets and a movie to watch.

They stay up late, four relatively free days ahead of them, nowhere to hurry, all the time in the world to enjoy this, not really a friendship, but something completely different. It sounds cheesy, but it seems to both of them that they've know each other for ages, and it's not entirely untrue. There's something resembling a bond, a complete understanding and a connection between their very essences. Punk almost wants to throw up, that's how sugary it sounds, but for once he just lets his thoughts wander while Spiderman is playing on screen. He looks at Randy's profile outlined by the TV lights, and only when the older man yawns and turns to him, he realizes he's staring.  
"What's the time?" sleepily asks Randy, and Punk reaches out for a phone from the general pile of stuff on the floor behind them. The phone he fishes out first is not his; it is smooth and metaly, shining new and visibly expensive. When Punk presses the only button to turn it on, the screen brightens up with a photo of a kid, a little girl, and although the resemblance is in no way striking, it's somehow clear who it is.  
"I didn't know you had kids," Punk says. Not that he cares all that much or is in any way surprised; he generally dislikes children and always assumed that a person like Randy would feel the same.  
"Alanna," Randy smiles, and isn't _that_ a rare thing to behold. He smirks and grins, but such an honest and warm smile, dedicated to someone he clearly holds dear, is an uncommon thing.  
_Little did you know about me at all, Punk_, thinks Randy, reaching back for his cellphone, and the magic of the evening starts to wear out when he yawns again. It's 4 a.m. and he does feel tired.  
"Well, I'll better be off to bed", he pronounces getting up. "You?"  
"I don't sleep," half jokingly responds Punk, lowering the volume on TV and turning his back to Randy, partly showing that the conversion is over and partly blocking flashing lights so Randy's sleep would be as undisturbed as possible.  
It's around 6 a.m. when Punk turns off the TV and makes his way to the bathroom past Randy's bed. Randy is sound asleep, calm and motionless for once, but the younger man doesn't stay to watch him; this shade of peacefulness seems so very fragile.  
Dim and dusty rays of sunlight crawl into the room, announcing a new day, and Punk is awake to greet it.

* * *

[July 19th, day 2]

The day passes by in a regular manner; both men go about their daily routines separately, only every now and again remembering last night. Punk is unconditionally happy; Randy is surprised and intrigued. He realizes that this fragile thing of a connection they have shared yesterday won't proceed any further without a proper push. No matter how half naked he would walk around the room, Punk would not fall that easy. _Honesty and direct approach_, decides Randy, surprising himself. _Haven't tried this before._

* * *

[July 10th, evening 2]

Randy is on his way back to the hotel, too drunk to drive, too drunk for his own good, too drunk for no apparent reason. This was clearly too much of a stimulation he had in mind before. Drunk means angry, it means lost control and insanity getting the best of him. This is when the idea of confronting Punk seems not just good, but the only possible option.

He smashes the door, slams it closed and trips over his own feet in a rush to Punk's part of the room. His victim stands up from the floor he was sitting on, looking puzzled and surprised and so obscenely attractive. He approaches Randy, perhaps in an attempt to calm him down (which at the moment equals calming down a typhoon), only to be brutally grabbed and smashed against the wall.  
"You annoying little shit," Randy growls against Punk's neck, so close he could bite him if he wanted to. For a second Punk thinks that he actually will, when the bigger man randomly hisses – "It was my song, you, you…" Punk smells distinct aroma of whiskey and a faint trace of Randy's cologne, and if he finds the latter pleasant and almost arousing, the scent of alcohol repulses him to no end.  
"What the fuck Randy, you're drunk!" He states the obvious, but that doesn't seem to drag his aggressor from blind intoxicated fury.

Intoxicated as he is, Randy suddenly comes up with a better idea than to hold his prey against the wall; not enough space, not enough air, he figures and proceeds pushing startled and powerless Punk onto the bed. His own shirt disappears in no time, and where's no telling who took it off, because when Randy, unable to restrain himself any longer, finally crashes his lips with Punk's, he unexpectedly responds. Randy bites Punk's lower lip and sucks on his piercing, and then their tongues are suddenly battling for dominance. Not breaking the kiss, Randy pushes his knee between the other man's legs and thrusts his hips again the other's, so Punk would be aware of his erection and the seriousness of his intentions. This is when he finally meets resistance. "I don't do one night stands," Punk says under his breath. "I don't care", this is the response Straight Edge Superstar gets, as his t-shirt is ripped apart and hot lips trace down his chest. Randy's jeans are easy to get off, and he mentally thanks his past self for deciding to go commando. However, resistance grows stronger, as Punk places a strong push against his chest.

Randy growls in discontent and anger. He knows he should stop and calm down, if he doesn't, it would end up in really dark colors, but he wants him so badly that it literally hurts, so badly that it actually becomes scary.  
This emotion brings Randy back to reality. Halfway embarrassed he climbs off the shaking, but thankfully still clothed Punk and lets go of his wrists that he was unconsciously clutching. He shakes off the state of complete decontrol he was in for past minutes and makes his move to the bathroom. Throbbing sensation in his groin calls for attention, and given the circumstances, he has no other choice than to finish himself off.  
Ice-cold shower is supposed to clear his heard and cool him down and it does, eventually. He lifts his face towards icy needles of water, frowning in disapproval. He almost lost it; he got carried away. _Newsflash, I'm insane,_ he grins angrily to himself. True as it was, he usually managed to keep his insanity at bay, being just unstable at worst. And now it was all different. Something was different (he wouldn't let himself think of it as _someone_), and now he's losing it; simple manhunt gone terribly out of hand.

He, however, completely ignores the matter of Punk's half-responsive behavior. It's irrelevant; what matters is that he lost it, in all possible ways.

He goes to bed angry, still half drunk and more than half aroused. _It will come,_ there's a voice in his head, yet another fucking voice, but this one is significantly different. _If it's meant to be, it will come._ Randy frowns and gnashes; he didn't do all that _meant to be _bullshit - he took what he wanted and was over it. He did not sign up for all these feely things, for all these emotions (he would spit that word out if he could), he didn't do falling for, not anymore. Did he just actually say _falling for?_

Acceptance is a first step to… what do they say? Recovery? He decides that he likes _victory_ more, but there's nothing he can do now but to admit his failure. Because that's what it it's, when he loses himself over a supposedly easy fuck. A failure.  
But just when he's about to accept the fact that he's not falling asleep tonight, same small voice soothes him in. _It will all come. In time._

* * *

[July 11th, day 3]

He wakes up late next morning, so late that it doesn't even matter whether he would jump out of bed immediately or would just stay in for a while longer. Randy stretches a bit and regrets the decision to move; the headache is insane, the stomach is twisting and the taste in his mouth is so awful that he barely controls an impulse to throw up. Yep, hangover at its finest.  
Then the memories from last night kick in, and he moans in embarrassment covering his face with the pillow.  
"Yeah yeah, you're never drinking again, I got that", a mocking voice from across the room reaches Randy's ears, muffled, yet still hurtful.  
"What," he croaks, voice beyond recognition.  
"Is that's what you all drunks say to yourself every morning? C'mon, rise and shine, sleeping beauty. I've got you coffee and some suspiciously looking croissants. Closest thing to resemble a breakfast in this hellhole, if you ask me." Punk's face floats up above him out of nowhere, messy hair and lids heavier than usual, a dead giveaway that he also just got up. He is smiling, unusually chipper, as he waves a paper bag supposedly containing the prior mentioned croissants.  
"No food," Randy murmurs rolling out of bed, trying to untangle himself from the sheets. When he finally succeeds, he's standing in front if Punk in a most embarrassing position, and completely naked.  
Punk doesn't look away; his eyes glisten with an odd mixture of joy, contempt and provocation.  
"What?" He raises his eyebrows. "Nothing I haven't seen… yesterday."  
"Yeah…" Randy strokes his face, in a hope to wipe the situation off like a bad dream. "Sorry 'bout that."  
"You were drunk," Punk states as if it would justify everything. Contempt almost gone from his eyes, replaced by something that looks awfully like pity. "Let's not make it more awkward than it is already."  
Randy nods.  
"That doesn't make you less naked, though," Punk points out with a smirk.  
Randy covers himself with a blanket, wraps it around his waist and still manages to stumble and trip over it on his way to the bathroom, feeling Punk's gaze burning his back.

"So, you're not even going to make fun of me?" He asks after he manages to compose himself in a halfway decent human being and grabs the cup of coffee from the table.  
"I might, but I shan't. It's like beating a sick puppy." _Did he just..?_ "My lips are sealed" Punk crosses his lips with his fingers. "At least someone has to be a gentleman here, right?" And the bastard actually _winks_ at him as he passes by on his way out.

* * *

So yeah, that was it for now. The next chapter is almost done too. But this first sort-of-slashy-scene basically sucked me dry (haha). Let me know how was it!  
also, that Sherlock reference was completely unintentional. I swear.


	4. Chapter 4

"If the last one was a bitch, this one is three bitches and a bastard". But, two days and countless cigarettes after, I give you yet another chapter. Enjoy.

* * *

[July 11th, day 3, evening]

It's one of those lazy mornings that somehow magically turn into lazy afternoons and then evenings without a feel of transition, and Randy is all stretched over his bed, seemingly reading, but it doesn't seem to hold his attention. Nothing really does; his thoughts wander, half asleep, he's not contemplating another attempt on Punk, because something inside him makes his inner beast slow down and for once go with the flow.

This is how Punk finds him when he returns from his workout. His chipperness of the morning seems to have dissolved somewhere; he appears to be thinking intensely about something so far out this room, that it doesn't look like he acknowledges Randy's presence at all. He looks positively spaced out, and is slightly startled when Randy greets him. Punk turns his face towards the other man, his gaze intense and slowly coming back to earth, and finally nods, as if deciding something for himself.  
"Still feeling like shit?" He asks, but here's hardly any usual condemnation in his tone or look, just the same reflecting manner, as if he barely cares for an answer.  
"Not all that much, no" Randy replies, fighting an impulse to get up and wave a hand in front of Punk's face to get at least some sort of reaction. This is all very odd, and it becomes even more so when Punk instead of going to mind his own business in his part of the room suddenly sits on Randy's bed. The laying man pulls away, slightly but noticeably, to keep their personal spaces intact. He knows what happens if he doesn't and sure as hell he's not going to repeat the same scenario. As much as he would like to blame yesterday's accident on alcohol, it's more than that. It's how Punk's close presence affects him, making him act like an animal on the heat, hand he puts the blame for it mostly on Punk.  
"Do you want to talk to me about something? Last night maybe?" he asks carefully.  
"Not all that much, no" is the response he gets, and Randy wonders if Punk realizes that he just repeated his own answer.  
"Might be a good idea though. You look like you need to get something off your chest."  
"And what makes you think it's last night?"  
There is a pause, unspoken thoughts hanging in the air, when Randy cautiously approaches the subject.  
"You didn't back away. I'd almost suspect you were into it, until…"  
"Until you tried to rape me, yes," Pun interrupts him halfway, finally looking right in his eyes. There's courage in his stare, determination and a little bit of… desire? "That is not how I wanted this to go, but it doesn't mean that I didn't want it at all", he forces out, the words don't come easy for CM Punk, the Voice of the Voiceless, the genius on the mic, probably for the first time in his life.  
"I don't sign for one-time quickies with my drunken colleagues. I just don't do that." He sighs and continues. "If it's doesn't mean anything to neither of us, sorry, I'm not your guy and you have to search for someone else to ease your tension."  
Randy doesn't know how it happens, but with each word, with each breath Punk is getting closer to him. They're no more than an inch apart, when Randy decides that this is it. _The time has come, as it was supposed to, everything on its own time, and I can't screw it up now. I get what I need and the world can burst into flames right after for all I care._

"Who says," he whispers leaning in, "That it can't last?"  
Punk's eyes close, eyelids trembling, as their lips finally touch. Kiss is slow and sweet, experimenting and discovering in its manner, two men are testing carefully what is it like to kiss the other. There is no rush or force like last night, and the sense of, hmm, _consensuality,_ so Randy figures that this can legitimately be called their first kiss.  
"Who says, "He whispers again against Punk's slightly parted lips when they break apart for a gulp of air, "That it doesn't mean anything?"

He pulls Punk into the bed, and for a while they make out like highscoolers, passionately, but not going anywhere too far. Punk's hands travel over Randy's clothed back while Randy has made his way under Punk's t-shirt and is already struggling in taking it off. It gets a lot easier when Punk rolls over and straddles him. Their groins come into contact, and they're both hard. Punk rolls his hips against his, instinctively, and from this position his upper body seems even leaner and more graceful. His eyes are still shut close as he tries to unbutton his pants, but Randy isn't having any of it. With one well-placed move he turns the situation around and now he is on top, Punk beneath him, his legs wrapped around Randy's waist, Randy's weight pushing him down into submission, but he doesn't seem to object. _If that was a battle for dominance, you've just lost it._ This thought helps Randy to compose himself. All the overly feely-emotional side is almost gone, he slowly regains his control over himself and the situation, and this control is basically handed to him by Punk himself. The hunt was long and tiring, and now it's the time to enjoy the prey. _Eyes on the prize, baby, eyes on the prize._

Punk's skin is flushed and hot when he is finally freed from his clothes, he's breathing heavily when he opens his eyes and says, "I have never before…"He twists his head to the side, rolls his eyes, smiles shyly. "Well, I don't mean _never_, but…"  
"I see," Randy squints, and then, "If _I_ blow_ you_, will it still be a promiscuous behavior?" He would like his voice to sound casual and indifferent, but it is hoarse and thick with desire. He decides to leave Punk's inexperience out of the discussion, focusing on fixing it practically instead.  
"Are you… are you mocking me?" Embarrassment flushes Punk's face when he realizes that he might just have given himself into some sort of sick prank. Randy notices the twist in the mood and feels like he has to reassure his poor, unsuspecting little prey.  
"I am dead serious, my dear", he murmurs making his way down with kisses and nibbles. He bites and teases Punk's left nipple, licks around his bellybutton, and finally ends up where he wanted to be.  
Without any warning or teasing around he takes a mouthful of Punk, making him let a strangled moan and pull his hips towards him. Punk's hands reach for the back of Randy's neck, but he puts them away. He wouldn't accept any attempt of control over him, and he continues to suck Punk off at his own pace. He was often praised for his skill, but now his impatience gets the best of him and there is more enthusiasm than skill in what he does. But Punk's moans and shifts are the best praise in the world, and as he briefly pulls away, he sees a trace of begging in his green eyes, shaded by lust and pleasure. "Please", he breathes out, as Randy admires Punk's arched body, fully under his control, and his skin, so silky and glistening with sweat. "If you go on, I'm gonna… I'm gonna…"  
"Yeah, not so fast," Randy grins and presses two fingers at Punk's lips. Puzzled for half a heartbeat, he soon realizes what is wanted of him and sucks on Randy's fingers, covering them with saliva.  
Slowly stroking Punk's member with one hand he pushes wet fingers deeper into his body; preparing Punk for himself takes longer than anticipated, he is just _that_ tight, and the sight and the thought of this tightness makes the anticipation unbearable. _To hell with it_, he decides twisting Punk around on his stomach and pulls himself into Punk's entrance. He doesn't care about the pain the other man might be experiencing, but judging from muffled wails and moans, it is pleasure he's causing, not pain. He thrusts back and forth, almost pulling off and then going in the full length, besides the obvious sensations enjoying Punk's responsive body and incomprehensive noises he's making.

It doesn't take too long before Randy starts to feel a familiar tingling in his spine and abdomen, and as he goes for final thrusts, he feels Punk arching under him. They reach the orgasm together, and no matter how much Randy wants to see Punk's face when he comes, he just kisses the man's neck as he breathes out his name into his neck, so silently that even he can barely hear it.

"You're heavy," claims Punk a minute after the climax, since Randy doesn't bother to move.  
"That didn't seem to be a problem before." He smiles and rolls over. He feels dizzy and sleepy, like always after a good sex, and it doesn't bother him in the slightest that Punk sprints straight to the bathroom, and after that storms out of their room. He figures Punk is not the cuddly-after-sex-type person, because Randy himself isn't, so he just lets his mind wander nowhere in particular as he slowly dozes out.

* * *

When Punk returns from his enthusiastic walk through the streets of Denver, which was supposed to clear his head, he finds Randy asleep, and he has no willpower to resist the urge to curl up by his side. Not waking up Randy half hugs him, and for a while everything is just so perfect it hurts.  
He doesn't fall asleep though, and after an hour of laying peacefully and an hour of twisting and turning from side to side Punk finally sneaks out of bed, trying his best not to wake the man by his side, but when he makes this way to the window, he hears a stretch and realizes his efforts were in vain.  
"What time is it?" A sleepy voice behind him, and big hands on his bare sides, slowly making their way to his chest.  
"Hell if I know. Around 2 a.m. Sleep." He doesn't mean to be rude, but the just doesn't know what to make of the situation he has dragged himself into; he needs his alone time to figure stuff out, but the other side of him, the one which calls for Randy, whispers him just to give in and enjoy. He is confused and happy, but he's never good ad expressing his feelings, and this is why he sounds rough.  
"When you said you don't sleep, you were actually serious."  
"Yes," Punk turns around and meets the gray gaze. His lover seems much more awake than he sounded just a few moments before.  
"So you're just gonna stand here and be all brooding for the rest of the night."  
"Yes."  
Randy smiles and kisses him, and Punk gives in, suddenly thinking of a much better activity than to stare through the window waiting for the morning.

* * *

[July 14th, day 5, late evening]

They do it so many times, in so many different ways neither of them even thought it was possible, and each time is different and better than the previous one. The room is a mess, the scent of sex never leaves the air, their friends wonder whatever happened to them, but they just don't notice or care. They're happy as much as they are capable of, or at least until they realize it's not going to last forever.

"We should go to sleep at some point. We have a plane to catch."  
"You mean _you_ have a plane to catch."  
Punk gives his lover a puzzled look, and Randy proceeds shrugging, reluctantly and with seemingly fake indifference:  
"I came by car." He doesn't want this to end as it is going to, at least one part of him doesn't, but the part responsible for his sanity wants to end this little _escapade_ of theirs as soon as possible.  
Punk is at loss of words again, and it takes a while for him to realize what that means.  
"So you stayed here just to…"  
"…Get in your pants, yes." He avoids looking at Punk, afraid that his softer side, the one he despises so much, will not be able to stand the look of an utter heartbreak he is causing now, and will do something stupid and irreversible.  
Silence hangs in the air for far too long, and the moment it seems that the windows are going to shatter from the pressure in the room, Randy finally breathes out, "I guess I should leave. See you around, Phil."

Punk doesn't object being called by his name; he doesn't look at Randy gathering his stuff from all over the room. He slowly makes it to the window, and looks as the only thing he held dear breaks into pieces and reflects countless times in the glass, mixed with the rare lights of late night Denver.

* * *

Yep, on this sad note we part with our heroes. Next one is the last one. Whatever will happen? I admit, this fic isn't going where I initially planned it to go, but oh well. I blame too much Velvet Goldmine soundtrack for that. What do you people say? Your reviews are greatly appreciated, as always.


	5. Chapter 5

Phew, the last one! I actually did it. Beware the sadness and angst ahead of you. Note to self - don't do stuff when heartbroken.

* * *

[Some weeks later]

"I don't do one night stands," he said, and Randy responded that he didn't care; "It could last," he said later, but it was all bullshit. He really didn't care, and Punk was proven once again that true thoughts are revealed when a person is drunk. He shouldn't be surprised, but he is, and that's his major obstacle on the way to recovery. _Accept the reality and move on,_ he says to himself so many times that the phrase starts to taste bitter, but doesn't everything these days?  
He half-asses his performances in the ring, he gives up on the madness going on with AJ, he barely talks to anyone and sleeps even less than usual. He wouldn't be able to tell the days one from another or what exactly is happening on each of them; he feels like a giant useless tumbleweed floating its way from one morning to another. It's not like he thinks all that much about what had happened between them. Memories are pointless, and reliving them is not going to change the outcome. But sometimes, when sleep just wouldn't come no matter how hard he tried, he gives in the self-pity and contemplation over "whys" and "what ifs".  
He sits on the window in his room in some hotel in some city, pulls his knees to his chin and turns on his ipod. Just to turn it off after a few minutes of going over the playlist. Since when does he have so much love songs? _Shit shit shit,_ and the ipod makes quite an impressive flight across the room.  
Not only his heart is broken, but also his moral principles; three days, amazing as they were, would not qualify as a relationship. Randy made him betray everything he stood for so easily that it made him question the strength of his beliefs. It was his own fault as much as Randy's. He should have known better; he _thought_ he knew better. Seems like he made the same old mistake of overestimating, and although over the years he has learned that people are assholes and accepted that fact, he wanted Randy to be different. But yet again he realizes that life never fails to disappoint.

His mind goes back in time, in all the nights they have shared, and overthinks all the small signs he should have noticed, but didn't. There is something that haunts his memory, a small detail he didn't seem to notice while it was happening, and now he starts to, and it really bugs him.

He wouldn't call him impassionate, he was anything _but._ There was something, however, and Punk can't quite grasp what. Distant? No, he seemed to be _in_ the moment, enjoying it to the fullest. What was it then? His ever present control? The fact that even in the heat of the moment, when all walls of self-defense would usually fall, replaced by an overpowering pleasure (and Punk was more than certain that it was_ quite_ overpowering), Randy would seem to be in complete awareness of basically _everything, _and was in control of his every move and even slightest shift in facial expression? Randy would never let himself be caught off-guard, would it be ring, conversation, or, apparently, sex, Punk realizes. That was something to think about, that was one of the signs that could've given away the fakeness of the situation and save him some pain.

It wasn't just about sex, though it was amazing, and he could even go as far as to say it never felt so good with any woman. It was all about the connection he felt, the feeling that he could just be himself for a while, just shut up, not try to be funny or eloquent or otherwise impressive; the feeling that he was good enough as he was.  
Apparently not.  
Apparently, it never meant anything.

He knows that it's better off for him to continue to play a cynical jerk, continue to wear this role and grow into it again. But now the barriers have fallen, he feels so extremely exposed, so vulnerable and so _naked, _stripped to his very essence, and he fears that now the entire world sees his insecurity, his self-esteem issues, usually covered by that fake "Best in the world" attitude.  
He hates himself, and this hatred is only strengthened by some sort of masochistic realization that he would gladly go through everything over and over, hell, he would agree to make his sufferings tenfold, if only he could be with him again.

* * *

As time passes, Randy grows restless and he doesn't understand why; he got what he wanted and things should progress at the usual pace from here on, meaning he would live his life till the next interesting piece of ass comes by. But somehow he can't.  
_Don't get too attached_, he always used to say to himself, ever since his marriage proved itself not to work. _It's not gonna work anyway, so better set realistic goals, settle for short-time fucks, and while I'm at it, might as well have some fun_, that were the words he lived his personal life by, and fun he had. It had become a sport of sorts, to spot the prey, hunt it and then let it go, betting along the way, how long can either of them last.  
But not his time. There is no telling what is so different about this scruffy looking guy, objectively speaking, not even nearly as handsome as some of his predecessors have been. But something strikes him, as he lays in bed or goes around his day-to-day life, and that something is one of those brief moments of idyll back in Denver, when he and his olive-eyed lover sit in some weird symbiosis in the armchair, exchanging rare thoughts about some irrelevant stuff, and Punk half-heartedly reads a graphic novel, and Randy traces patterns on his naked shoulder, following the tattoo lines, and everything is so right and so simple. He growls in annoyance every time this and many similar images pop up in his mind, he wishes them away, but they just wouldn't leave.

The sight of Punk's eyes glistening, his back arching and his lips letting out a surprisingly soft and quiet moan (as opposed to his own loud groans) when comes; it's one of those times when Randy gathers the courage to look at Punk's face when they have sex, despite the fact that he usually prefers not to see his partners come, because the moment is just so intimate and bonding, that he just can't do it without the risk to get attached. But with Punk he gives in, and there isn't or ever will be anything more fascinating and rewarding than to watch him reach the climax, and the thought that it's his, Randy's merit brings his own orgasm closer.

With all those feelings and memories burning in him, he feels as vulnerable as ever, because his usual attitude of a hunter for one-timers seems to break into pieces every time he thinks of Punk. _If I don't do anything about it, I will go even more insane than I already am, _he acknowledges, with his usual awareness and control over his feelings and actions – all what is left of his former self. That doesn't mean that he likes the idea; he just knows there is no other way to keep himself sane.

* * *

He watches in the monitor room as Punk keeps ranting on stage, on and on, and it seems he would never stop. Stuff he's saying is no more offensive than usually, but this time Randy just can't stand it any longer. Restless, he circles around the room, feeling like a caged beast. He reaches for the script for today's show, only to find out that Punk's ongoing lecture on how unfair world is in general and what a pathetic asshole Randy is in particular will eventually be interrupted by AJ prancing in the arena in an attempt to renew their relationship in her usual random manner. His thoughts seem to lose any sort of coherency, as one single thought, an animalistic instinct, kicks in, fills his mind, leaving him blind to anything else.

_Mine, _it echoes in Randy's head as he's clenching his fists on his way to the main arena entrance. _You asked for it, you made me do it, don't you see, it's all your fault; _Randy starts to completely lose it, as he growls to the technician to put his music on.  
"Where do you think you're going? You're not scripted for today", the guy gives him a puzzled look but Randy doesn't seem to notice. "I'm gonna shut him up. For good." The smile on his face is not a good one; he looks positively insane. "Voices" start playing and hell, the way to the ring was never this long before. Or so short? There is so much he has to tell Punk. _Look what you made me do, look what you made of me, it's all you, it's all your fault. Why on earth couldn't you be just like everyone else, like normal fucking people? You always have to be so special, so unique, so… only one. It's your fault that everyone is so tasteless to me now, everyone who doesn't taste of you repulses me; I hate you. But you are mine and there's no way I'm ever letting you go again. _

But he's on stage, lights blind him for a while, and his fists are so tight that his nails dug deep in his palms. "Shut up already, Phil", he says in the microphone, and Punk, spitting out "Don't you fucking Phil me", turns at him and looks him in the eyes. Punk looks confused, disturbed and very angry. When they are close, so close their foreheads almost touch, those amazingly green eyes seem to give out some sort of pain behind them. _You're in no right to be in pain, I'm the one who's defeated, the one who's giving up, _the grey eyes are saying. Realizing the pain he causes to others is not Randy's strong side. "What the fuck are you doing here?" Punk whispers, so only he could hear him. "I'm here just what you heard I'm for: to shut you up for once", Randy speaks in the mic, but when Punk taunts him to go ahead and do his worst, he still remains motionless.  
"What, is our Viper out of ideas?" Punk mockingly asks after a while, but then in the blink of an eye he is silenced and the whole world ceases to exist when Randy kisses him.

The kiss is in no way sweet, gentle or romantic. It is utterly desperate and painful; their lips crush with such power and intensity, that when Punk parts his lips, their teeth clang. Randy moans into Punk's open mouth, and that is a moan of a hurt beast. When Randy opens his eyes, he sees Punk's eyes shut close and a half of a tear glimmer on his eyelashes. _It's all you, do you see now? It's you I can't exist without, you I'd forget myself for, you I would hurt over and over again just to keep by my side._ Randy holds Phil so tight as if his life depended on it. And it probably does.

To say that Punk is shocked is an understatement. He is in complete astonishment, and therefore finds nothing better than to respond.  
The kiss doesn't last; in a few seconds they withdraw from each other, staring in disbelief.

For a while the crowd is dead silent, and two men can hear each other's elevated heartbeats and shattered breathes.

But then – an uproar. The loudest they have ever heard; the lights go off immediately, and through the wild screams Randy, holding his prey tight, slowly walks backstage. The insanity going on there is beyond control, but two men don't seem to care.

* * *

Later on, they lay in bed, all sweaty and catching breath. They haven't said a word to each other since the ring, but the silence is comforting. No unspoken words hang between them as before. Both men smile to the ceiling as their fingers intertwine, and the bond that was always there, that never ceased to exist is now stronger than ever. They both know what the other is thinking, and there is no need to voice their thoughts.

"_It's not gonna be easy. If it's gonna work out at all, that is._"  
"_It probably won't . I'm insane and messed up. I've hurt you, and I will again."  
"Crazy ," _Randy can just feel Punk smiling._  
"What?"  
"Crazy, not insane."_  
"_I don't even know what it is that we have here._"  
"_Love..?_"  
"_Might be. I'm not sure."  
_"_Then mine will have to be enough for both of us. For now."  
_"_And when you will start feeling tired of sharing yours, we will start sharing mine."  
"…Deal."_

* * *

And this is how it ends. My first fanfic is over. Such an odd feeling.  
The readers and those awesome people who bothered to voice their opinions! I'm grateful beyond measure. Thank you all for your time and attention :)


End file.
